


Love Notes: 2% Milk

by aquabelacqua



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Coffee, Coffee Shops, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Grey's Anatomy - Freeform, Greys anatomy prompt, Jealousy, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Milk, Misunderstandings, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Tea, Tumblr Prompt, Writing Exercise, so much jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 05:50:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7031635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquabelacqua/pseuds/aquabelacqua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From Giddystars's Tumblr prompt:</p><p>"So I was watching old episodes of Grey’s Anatomy and when Meredith Grey told Derek Shepherd: ‘pick me, choose me, love me’ I really wanted to read a fic in which John tells Sherlock the same thing. Perhaps they were in a relationship and broke it off for a number of reasons and Sherlock either is dating someone new or is spending a lot of time with some other guy and John realises what he is missing and realises that he is in love with Sherlock and wants to get back with him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Notes: 2% Milk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [semi_charmed_life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/semi_charmed_life/gifts).



“The cream was past the expiry date. This is 2%”

Sherlock set the mug down in front of him, circling it ‘round so the handle pointed left. A motion borne of long-standing habit, perhaps, but it gave John hope nonetheless.

“It’s fine, yeah. Ta, Sherlock.”

John was nervous – God, he even _sounded_ nervous – and he was disgusted with himself for it. Of course Sherlock would hear the waver in his voice. It was clear even over the high squeal of the steamers and the hollow clop of metal mugs against the countertop – baristas coaxing the bubbles from freshly frothed milk. 

John knew he wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all himself.

Why wouldn’t he be nervous? He’d been the one to cut Sherlock off, after all. He’d been the one to declare a moratorium on late night texts and on showing up unannounced to sweep John off to grisly crime scenes and then abandon him there with no cab fare home. He’d been the one – and here he can feel his face grow hot with months-late embarrassment – to tell Sherlock to “fuck completely off” after he’d sabotaged yet another of John’s dismal dates. But John hadn’t stopped there, had he? He’d finished off that rant well and good: “And you can stop playing the jealous boyfriend while you’re at it.” 

He recalled the trajectory of Sherlock’s expressions that night with perfect clarity: shocked, crestfallen, hooded, empty. 

It was a nasty row in that it had been no row at all, just Sherlock leaving quietly, closing the door behind him without a fuss. And then John, buoyed by mortification and self-righteous anger, had played the coward to the letter, pointedly ignoring Sherlock all week and then moving out whilst he was a week in Dover on a paid mission for Mycroft. 

John blew on the surface of his tea, pretending to focus on the cooling-down process so he could avoid Sherlock’s gaze.

“Any new cases on? Anything interesting?” he asked lightly. 

When no response seemed forthcoming, he chanced a look in Sherlock’s direction and regretted it at once. 

Sherlock was leaned back in his chair, as far away as he could get whilst remaining seated at their table. He was looking at John steadily, his expression unreadable, and John had never felt more exposed. He looked down again, wrapping his hands around the mug of tea to draw out the warmth, a shield against Sherlock’s cold, colorless eyes. 

Was this going to be the tone of the entire meet-up, then? Immediate regret echoing eternal regret? Maybe it would be easiest to just get up and slink out without saying another word. He didn’t think Sherlock would stop him. _But then why agree to meet at all?_ John thought.

“What do you want, John?” Sherlock’s tone was sharp enough to make John squirm in his seat. 

He could still leave. Nobody was forcing him to be here.

“I’ve just wondered. You know. How you are. How you’ve been.”

“Have you.” It was not a question. John answered it anyway.

“I have, yeah. ‘Course I have.”

Sherlock leaned forward, wool-clad elbows skimming the table whilst his thumbs tapped out a rapid-fire reply on his phone. John was being summarily dismissed. He swallowed noisily. 

“Sherlock, look. I’m sorry. I am.”

Sherlock looked up briefly, scrutinized John’s face, his pale gaze flickering back and forth between John’s eyes. He looked down again, seconds later.

“Mmmm. You’ll want to avoid Euston Station tonight. Bomb threat.”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked up again and sighed, tossing his phone onto the table.

“John, it’s fine. You were angry, I was in the way. Let’s move on.”

Sherlock’s phone pinged and he scooped it back up eagerly.

“Hang on, I never said–”

Skimming his phone, Sherlock burst into boyish peals of laughter and the rest of John’s words died in his throat. He watched Sherlock’s face whilst he responded, his eyes creased with happiness and an easy smile playing on his lips.

John felt like he’d eaten a bucket of tadpoles. His stomach churned and roiled.

“Who’s that?” he asked, forced casualness making his voice unnaturally loud. 

“Mmm?” Sherlock looked up, his eyes refocusing on John as if just realizing he was still there. “Oh, nothing. Nobody, I mean. How’s the clinic?”

“No, hang on. Are you...is that...are you seeing someone?” John sat up straighter in his chair, a muscle in his cheek beginning to dance out of rhythm.

“John,” Sherlock smiled winningly, “I can’t see how that’s any of your business.”

John felt gutted. He’d done this, he’d put distance between them and now he wasn’t even privvy to the most fundamental of developments in Sherlock’s life. 

“Yeah, right. Sorry. Of course” 

Sherlock looked down at the phone and back up again at John, his eyes softer.

“It’s...new.”

The tadpoles gave a slimy shiver and John forced down another glug of tea, hoping to drown the bastards in Earl Grey and 2% milk. 

“That’s great,” he said, nodding, “Great. I’m happy for you. Where did you meet h–”

“Crime scene, actually,” Sherlock cut in. “Strangest thing. A friend of Molly’s, and–”

“Oh,” John interrupted, his chuckle edged with something a little poisonous, “Molly Hooper-approved, even! That’s–that’s something, Sherlock.”

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was quiet but John heard the warning anyway. And chose to ignore it.

“No, that’s great, Sherlock. Just great. I leave and–”

“Exactly,” Sherlock hissed, exploding forward, crowding the table with his upper half. “You _left_. Was I supposed to wait around forever for you to–”

Sherlock sat back up again at once, blinking owlishly, mouth snapped shut. John’s left hand twitched under the table and he began to smile dangerously.

“For me to...?” 

“It was good to see you, John.” 

Sherlock tucked his phone into the inside pocket of his jacket and stood. John looked down at his mug, blinking, whilst Sherlock wound his scarf around his neck. The milk was beginning to separate, tiny flecks of white freckling the surface of the tea. _How did we get here?_ he wondered.

When Sherlock moved just past him, John shot out a hand and tugged him back by the wrist. He stood up gracelessly, his metal chair scraping against the stone floor loudly enough for the baristas to shoot him a glare in unison. 

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock continued to look ahead, as if the sheer force of his gaze would propel him through the cafe doors and disentangle him from John’s grip. John wound his fingers into Sherlock’s. He could feel the tension in Sherlock’s hand, each digit rigid with unspoken frustration. 

“Sherlock, please.”

Sherlock frowned down at the floor. Then, his shoulders loosened and he turned back to look at John guardedly.

“Please,” John said, running his tongue nervously over his lips. “Pick me.”

There was a long moment where the world stood still. Even the music stopped. The chatter, too. 

“ _What?_ ” 

Sherlock’s response was too quiet for John to pick out the emotion behind it – was he angry? Pleased? Resigned? – so he barreled onward.

“Pick me.” John knew he sounded desperate. “Choose me. Love me.” Worse, even, he was seconds away from tears – how in the hell had that happened? – but he couldn’t stop the words once he’d started. “Love _me_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked down at their entwined fingers for a long moment. Then he untangled his hand. “I have to make a phone call.” 

And he was gone.

John sat back down in his chair again, boneless. He gazed into the muddy liquid in his mug for a long moment before pushing it away. 

“Can I get you anything else, sir?” The barista’s tone was gentle, her eyes sympathetic, and it made John feel even worse. 

“No, thanks. I’ll–I’m almost done.”

“Take your time,” she said, and then she, too, was gone.

John thought about his terrible bedsit, the eggshell carpet three grimy shades lighter than his discarded tea, and sank his face into his hands. 

He stayed there for a long while, losing track of time after call-outs for four nonfat lattes and a song that sounded like chattering teeth over an oboe solo. 

When Sherlock’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder, John leaned into it without taking his hands away from his face just in case it was a vivid hallucination brought on by expired milk. 

“Ready to go?” Sherlock asked softly.

“Were you telling your date?” John asked, his voice still muffled against his fingers, “About your mad ex-flatmate playing the jealous boyfriend?”

The thud of Sherlock’s phone on the table was enough to pull John’s fingers away from his face. There were only three messages in his queue:

 _Ammonia, celeriac root, bat guano_ \- Molly  
_Paperwork 4 Mergwine and Wallis case due 2 days out. Fair warning_ \- GLestrade  
_Ndege yako majani saa nane_ \- MH

John looked up at Sherlock who was looking back at him with raised, mildly amused brows. 

“I was canceling your lease,” Sherlock said. “You’ll need to be out by the 15th or you’ll lose your deposit.” 

John hoped like hell that Sherlock didn’t mind the taste of 2% milk because he was pulling him down, fingers dipping into the hollows behind Sherlock’s ears, and kissing him – kissing him bloody _senseless_ – amidst the buzz and the music of the cafe and for all the world to see.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to Giddystars (on Tumblr) / semi_charmed_life (on AO3) for tagging me in my first ever fic prompt! It was a lot of fun.
> 
> (ETA - I am aquabelacqua on Tumblr. Just sayin' :::shy toe-shuffle:::)


End file.
